


Testing Your Training

by EmperorsVornskr



Series: Tumblr Prompts [18]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Aftercare, Front Hole Sex, Frottage, Light Bondage, M/M, Smoking, Teasing, Trans Masc Character, light alcohol consumption, trans masc reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29396181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmperorsVornskr/pseuds/EmperorsVornskr
Summary: Being a Loyalty Officer is lonely when folks are scared of you. Luckily, folks are far more scared of General Hux, so you have something in common. He's not scared of anyone, especially you- and tests your training in resisting giving in when under substantial pressure...
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Reader, Armitage Hux/You
Series: Tumblr Prompts [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677616
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	Testing Your Training

**Author's Note:**

> Was disappointed that there's very little trans masc reader with Hux, and one of them includes menstruation, so I decided to fix this. This is for trans masc, non-phallo folks, and has front hole sex, with as gender neutral terms for the front hole as I could manage. 
> 
> Cis women, this ain't for you, so please refrain from bookmarking this as anything other than trans masc.
> 
> Want a Non/Near-Human Hux with some good old fashioned knotting instead? [ Try this version!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29396304)
> 
> (This is my first time writing a reader fic. Please be gentle)

You know how to read folks- it’s your job. You’ve been trained for years how to understand body language, to gauge shifts of weight from foot to foot, the direction of a head tilt, the cant of the chin, the time between blinks, even the way someone’s lips part before speaking. You can tell after a few minutes what the general mood of anyone is- even if they’re trying to hide it (which makes it more obvious)- and more importantly, you can tell if they’re _lying_.

All while keeping a completely blank expression, keeping your cool, and being unreadable yourself, except to your peers.

You’re feared. You’re reviled. High ranking officers and lowly technicians alike balk when they see your white uniform, because they know _why_ it’s white. They avoid you like a brilliant white plague and it’s always thrilling to watch even the vaunted General Pryde stiffen and guard his movements, his expressions, when he sees you on the same deck as himself. Even the Old Imperials had Loyalty Officers, and they feared them. First Order Loyalty Officers are made from sterner stuff, though, so it’s hardly fair they compare you to your predecessors. Their bite was enough to break skin, maybe take off a finger, but your teeth, your bite, can crack femurs.

If Imperial Loyalty Officers were tuka’ta, then you are a Krayt dragon.

It definitely has a downside, though. It makes it very hard to find company. No one wants to sleep with someone who could legally torture you if they suspect you guilty of sedition. Even higher ranked officers tend to look the other way during socials. You often have to make do when you’re on shore leave, and not wearing the uniform, and it’s easier to read the crowd and find a pair of eyes that are saying ‘I would wreck that.’

So it’s a surprise- almost a shocking one, really- that you’re in this situation. It was a simple call to his quarters for discussion about an officer. It’s not the first time you’ve been here, won’t be the last, but it’s the first time you’ve stayed past what protocol demanded. You’d noticed the slight dilation of pupils, eye contact that was only broken by glances at your lips. His nostrils have flared a bit, his lips are parted, and he’s leaning closer as you show him your report. His eyebrows are raised, and his hand is stroking his jaw, fingers idly running down to his collar before he puts a hand thoughtfully to his mouth- but not before you notice his tongue flick out and wet his lower lip. His breaths are deeper, and his posture is open- he’s even manspreading more than is normal - even for someone arrogant like him. He’s interested, you are reading it all like a book, and damnit, it’s hard not to want him back, especially since there’s no fear in his body language, only interest, and borderline desire. You’re surprised he isn’t pitching a tent in his jodhpurs, but you wouldn’t mind it if he were, because you want him, too.

It’s hard not to want General Hux. He’s powerful, he's dangerous, he’s smarter than most, and he’s capable. Rumour has it that he had the same basic training you did before Brendol died, and only stepped out of it to join the army properly in order to take full control of the legacy Grand Admiral Sloane had helped build for him. He’s also ridiculously attractive- he’s well put together, always perfectly groomed, and so what if he’s skinny, you’ve seen him hold his own against Phasma in the training rooms. Bulk doesn’t always mean strength, and you know Brendol’s record proves that. His eyes are preternatural in their sharpness, that pale grey-green, the red eyebrows sharp and meticulously groomed, and lips almost always on the verge of a sneer of disdain of a smirk of some private knowledge, and his cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, they all lend to the lean visage of a predator, a hunter- one that’s always hungry, and now, those eyes are only seeing you.

You’re so captivated by those eyes, you’re not sure who said what, or when the line was crossed, only that your situation is no longer professional. Your datapad and gloves are on the caff table, your boots are off, your mugs of tea are going cold, and you’re laid flat on the ice blue couch with his gloved hands sliding to undo the sealing seam of your tunic, your belt already undone. His other hand is pinning your wrists above your head as his hot wet mouth leaves suck marks on your throat, his knee is pressing hard between your thighs, and all you can think is you don’t want him to stop.

“Loyalty Officers have impeccable training,” he says against your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “You do perfect interrogations, but how much can you withstand yourself?”

His hands peel open your tunic, and the cold air of the room has gooseflesh rising on your skin immediately. He smirks and runs a gloved hand over your chest, humming thoughtfully as he devours you with hooded, glittering green eyes that suddenly remind you of a predator. Your breath catches in your throat as the leather trails over your scars, then down your stomach and over the waistband of your pants. Without releasing your wrists- or your gaze- he deftly undoes the buttons and zipper of your pants. He grips your hip and pulls upward, and you oblige, arching your back so your hips are off the couch, and he pulls your pristine white pants down.

“Do not move your hands,” he says firmly, eyes glittering hard and cold, and all you can do is nod as he lets go of your wrists. With both hands, he slides off your skivvies, and they join your pants on the floor in a pile. You’re on the couch with your open tunic baring your chest and stomach, your pants and skivvies gone, and all you have on below the waist is your socks and garters- along with the monomolecular blades strapped into them- socks _and_ garters.

“Oh, this won’t do,” he purrs, and carefully, nearly systematically, begins disarming you. It takes a while- you have no less than ten knives on your person, and by the time he’s done, your tunic has joined your pants on the floor, leaving you in just socks and garters- and when the hell did he cuff your hands? Your breath comes a little faster now, when you test the bonds, and find he’s mag-cuffed them to the couch, which obviously has a metal frame under the plush upholstery. Your hands aren’t going anywhere, but he’s taken care to make sure they’re level, and the blood won’t drain from them- they’re firmly bound, but comfortable.

“Now,” he says, still- unfairly- fully dressed, “let’s see how much you can stand before you beg for my cock- or if you’ll come before that.”

“And if I do neither, Sir, and you want my hole before you come?” you ask, and his eyebrows raise.

“That won’t happen,” he promises.

He pulls one of your legs up so your heel is resting on the back of the couch, and he almost rudely shoves your other leg off the edge of the seat cushions so your thighs are splayed wide open, and stupidly, all you can think to say is-

“Your couch will be a mess, Sir.”

“Fuck the couch, I want to see what you’re made of,” Hux growls, and carefully, he trails his gloved fingertips over your stomach, moving slowly towards your groin. He strokes your well groomed hair, then makes a low sound of approval as he spreads your folds open to get a good look at your cock and your front hole. His scrutiny is hungry, predatory, and he licks his lips in such anticipation that it makes you shudder, but you refuse to say a word. The look in his eyes, his body language, they all point to his desire of wanting to draw this out.

He strokes your outer folds, his eyes never looking away from yours, and it takes everything in you, all of your training, not to look away. The leather is soft and supple over your skin, and he’s purposely avoiding your cock, your hole, moving out to barely trace lines along your inner thighs. It’s nice, but without further stimulation, it’d be all too easy to think of this as tender rather than sexual, and you start to do just that- having him see your cock soften, even if it’s small, would be a blow, a victory.

He doesn’t give you the chance.

His gloved fingertips seize your cock and give it a firm, but gentle tug. You swallow a gasp, and it takes massive amounts of self restraint not to buck off the couch or jerk your legs. He smirks, feeling it twitch and throb under his fingers, and he rotates his wrist a fraction so he can slide a thumb into your hole and get it wet with your fluids. He then begins rubbing the head of your cock with the slick leather-covered thumb, the perfect balance of friction and pressure, and oh, it’s so _good-_

-and he stops, watching your cock twitch, your hole glistening with a wave of arousal, drooling like a hungry mouth, and a silent wave of curses run through your head. It’s good, it feels amazing, but it wasn’t enough to make you lose your mind. That’s what you tell yourself- it’s not his cock, so it-

Your brain goes blank as he undoes his pants, just enough to slip his erect cock through the opened fly, and he moves _just_ close enough so the tip of his cock- which has a bead of precome glittering in the slit- is just a breath away from rubbing against your own cock. His look is pure sadism as he watches your hips twitch, then fall still as the thought of him using that drop to lube your cock as he runs his head over it makes your pulse race. It’s such a _nice_ cock, too- uncut, the foreskin not all the way retracted over the swollen head, average girth and length, and it slightly curves upward, so all you can think is that it’ll hit your g-spot _so well_ , and his balls are a good size, good and tight- and unsurprisingly, his balls are shaved. _His cock would hit my g-spot, and his balls would feel so good smacking my ass, is all you can think_ , and your hole drools all the more at the thought. He chuckles- a low, dark sound that rubs over your ears like distant thunder.

“You want this?” he says, and taking his cock in hand, he steadies it so he can _just barely_ flick your cock with the head of his. It’s warm and there’s the slick of his precome, and it throbs against you for that brief second and you swear your own small cock swells in response to the touch, that it might just burst with the need of attention. You remain silent, but you know at this point, your voice doesn’t have to say anything- your body is _screaming_ and betraying you and your training.

As if reading your mind, Hux smirks and oh stars, he’s tracing the outside edges of your hole with his cock, teasing, smearing the slick fluid between you. His eyes mostly fixate on yours, but he glances down here and there to make sure he doesn’t actually touch your hole with his cock, despite how it’s practically gaping for him. All you want is to say fuck it, to say ‘FUCK ME’ and let him have his way, to fuck you until you scream, but once he does, and you both come, it’ll be over and it’s been so long since you’ve had this…

He moves his dripping cock to your throbbing one, and drags it down, then up, slicking up your small cock with slow, languid strokes, then small circles around the twitching head before lifting his foreskin a bit and finagling your cock under it. A strangled sound finally escapes your throat as he presses hard against you, and begins to make small, tiny thrusts as he docks and frots with you. Still, you won’t beg for his dick, and you purposely think of your last interrogation to keep from coming- but you’re unsure if the blood, guts and screams are a turn off, or a turn on at this point.

It’s then that you realise he’s panting- quiet, but it’s there. His pupils are wide, his nostrils are flared and his mouth is hanging open as he thrusts against your cock, and you wish that-

“ _Fuck_!”

You both say it at the same time- his thrusts, the precome, the increasingly slippery slope of his cock against your own has resulted in him slipping into your hole. You lock eyes, neither of you moving as the head of his cock throbs inside your wet hole. You squinch your eyes in an attempt to smother a full blown smirk with your eyes, but unable to resist, you twitch your hips, helping him deeper inside. He groans as you flex your Kegels, giving him a taste of what you have to offer, and he leans over you, sliding his cock in to the hilt. His balls press against your ass, along with the crisp fabric of his jodhpurs. He holds himself up using the armrest, just over your head, and stares into your eyes.

“A draw, I think, as I didn’t get a full measure, and I-”

“Got cocky?” you say cheekily- and give his cock a good squeeze with your Kegels, eliciting a groan from him that starts off irritated and ends low and throaty with pleasure.

“Take your punishment for that,” he growls, and begins pounding you- HARD and fast, and finally, you let loose the groans and cries you’ve been wanting to vocalise, wrapping your legs around his hips as he mercilessly fucks your hole.

His cock is perfect- the foreskin rubs inside you, and the slight curve has his head rubbing and pressing your g-spot. His tight plump balls slap your ass, and his cock makes perverse, wicked wet sounds as it moves in and out of your hole. He leans down and runs his tongue over the scars on your chest, his breath hot and ragged as he pants against your skin, and then he’s biting your neck, sucking, biting, kissing and leaving marks wherever he can reach. His free hand is sliding between your grinding hips, and it’s seizing your cock between forefinger, middle finger and thumb, and he rubbing, rolling and stroking your cock as he thrusts harder and harder into your hole, the pressure is building between the two of you-

-and you scream his name, unable to hold back as you come, hot wet fluids running from your hole, and in the waves of your orgasm, you clench tight with everything you’ve got to help him along- legs and Kegels- and it sends him over the edge, his cock spilling a mess of come into your hole, making a mess. He pants, collapsing on top of you, his heart pounding against your sweaty chest, the fabric of his tunic harsh against your skin.

“Stars,” he murmurs, finally getting up, pulling his softening cock out of your sloppy hole, and leaning over to undo your cuffs. He helps you up and covers you with his own coat from the back of the couch.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly, tucking his cock into his pants and zipping up. You nod, but don’t get up- you don’t trust your knees to hold you up.

“That was fucking amazing,” you say quietly, then laugh. “I need a cigarra.”

Hux says nothing- he already has a cigarra case in hand, and he slips one between your lips before you can say anything else. He lights his own, then leans in, and presses the end of his cigarra to yours. You inhale carefully until the end catches, and you take in a deep drag of paricha spiced Rashallo tabac. It’s delightfully warm and the nicotine flushes through you, and you watch as Hux pours two small glasses of brandy.

“Can you stand?” he asks. You nod, and follow curiously as he leads the way from the sitting room, and into his refresher. To your surprise, he has a small tub- not luxurious by any means, but from what you can see, it would snugly fit two adults if one sat in the other’s lap, or between their legs and leaned against their chest. To your added surprise, Hux has placed the glasses on the counter, and is stripping out of his uniform.

“Run the tap,” he says as he removes his clothes- and his many, many holstered knives. You’re impressed with the sheer number of them. You do as he says, and run the bath, setting the temperature to something hot, but not scalding.

Once he’s naked- and what a _sight_ he is naked, sharp angles and lean muscle, but with… is that a soft stomach and love handles? And an even softer ass?- he adds a bath oil to the water, then gets into the tub, cigarra between his lips, and he beckons to you. You hang his coat up, remove your socks and garters, and slide into the tub and in between his legs. He pulls you back to lean against his chest, to rest the back of your head against his shoulder. He’s lean but soft and the water is warm between your bodies, the cigarra is delicious in your lungs, and he’s pushing a tumbler of brandy into your hand. It’s good stuff- Corellian brandy, and it’s smooth, strong and the aftertaste is sweet and lingers like a lazy kiss.

It’s hard to wrap your head around this- you’ve just been teased and fucked by General Hux, and now, you’re sharing a cigarra and a drink- while lounging with him in a bathtub of hot water and bath oil that smells of fijisi. The delicate scent of the wood oil, the rich spice of the tabac, the warm sharp scent of brandy, and the delicious combined musks of your skin mingles into something you wish you could bottle and wear every day- or at least spray on your pillow.

“We didn’t see how long you could hold out,” Hux says amicably into the comfortable silence after turning off the facet. His cock is soft against your ass, his stomach is comfortable against your back, and his chest is warm under your shoulder blades. You hum, taking a slow sip of your brandy.

“Shame, that,” you say casually.

A wet arm wraps around your waist, and Hux pulls you flush against him, his cock stirring against your ass.

“Well,” he purrs in your ear before snagging the earlobe between his teeth and tugging it. “We’ll have to try again fresh… won’t we? Do you have room in your schedule?”

“The General takes priority,” you say, putting your cigarra out in the nearby ashtray.

“Yes, yes I do,” he agrees, and turns you around in the bath to give you a long, bruising kiss.

It’s going to be a long, satisfying night.


End file.
